“Tell me again.” He implored me to explain for the third time in a row. Already uncomfortable enough under the hot searing light of the windowless room we sat in anyone could understand my frustration and stress. I’d been looking at the same off-white four walls for the past two hours, all of which covered in questionable stains and damage points, although considering where I was that shouldn’t have been surprising. The light was the uncomfortable old school lights that weren’t energy conscious and had a weird yellow hue. I took yet another deep breath before I looked up at the old, balding sheriff and began again.
“I was on the corner of First and Magnolia boulevard. I heard screams coming from that new development a few doors down so I ran into the reception to see what happened. I saw a woman, presumably the receptionist, lying on the ground throat ripped open and blood pouring out. There was a man who was coming out of the elevator. He was covered head to toe in blood and had another man by his neck, dragging him out into the lobby. Once out he let him go and as he ran he shot him with a handgun. I don’t know the make, I’m not a gun enthusiast. The killer was around six foot, black messy hair, brown eyes, sharp features. He was wearing black pants and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.”
“And what did you do once you saw him kill the second victim?” He had that tone about him that told me he didn’t believe me. That drawn out, monotone voice that shows he’s just doing the formalities, but nothing will come of this whole day, except sleepless nights and countless therapy sessions.
The sheriff looked like he’d had one too many donuts in his time. He was a rotund man, legs looking like they were barely supporting his weight as he waddled around the room, that’s when he wasn’t sitting across from me and drinking coffee that had a distinct smell of cheap whiskey, something that he clearly didn’t think anyone else would notice. Or maybe he just assumed being the sheriff would make him exempt from someone mentioning it. The top of his head was devoid of all hair except for a band of greying-brown wisps wrapping around the back. It matched the unkempt nose and ear hairs that were protruding from his bulbous features. He hadn’t cared about his appearance in a long time and it showed.
“I took off running down the street as he advanced towards me. I never turned back for fear he was still chasing me, so I kept running until I got to an alley on seventh, hid behind a dumpster, vomited and called 911.” I continue, pulling my knees to my chest as I started on the one nail left that hadn’t been bitten to a nub today. It was a bad habit and impossible to kick, but at least it was healthier than whiskey in my morning coffee. “Look I’m well aware you don’t believe me but I know what I saw! It was there!” I was almost pleading at this point my voice whiny and croaky from the bile and the constant begging for them to take me seriously.
“Miss… Can I call you Miss?” He questioned but made no effort to wait for my answer. “I understand that you think you saw something, but we were at the building within ten minutes of your call and saw nothing. No blood, no bodies, no weapon. Hell, there wasn’t even fingerprints! It could not have been cleaned up that quickly, do you understand me? Either you wer-“ I cut him off, refusing to listen to him tell me I was crazy again.
“You drug tested me for everything under the sun! You had me pee in a fucking cup! I didn’t hallucinate it; I didn’t dream it and sleepwalk to the dumpster! I am not on medication and as far as I’m aware a diagnosis of mild anxiety does not give me visions of violent death scenes, now when will you start taking me seriously?” Standing up I challenged him, sick of being called a lunatic for seeing something that they claimed wasn’t there. I know what I saw.
“I think today has put a lot of stress on you. Maybe you should go home, relax, collect yourself and we will pick this up in a day or so.” He scoffed at my small show of defiance. Clearly not intimidated by a five foot something girl who could be crushed under one of his ass cheeks. “Head down the hall and Officer Curry will show you out.” He sits back down, expectantly watching me as I sighed deeply and walked out, slamming the door behind me which gave me one last bit of satisfaction after hearing the sheriff jump and swear as he spilled his coffee on his pants. He really was a pathetic excuse for an officer of the law.
I wandered down the hall, passing a few desks with people complaining about missing cats, neighbourly disputes, even a grocery store owner who had two teenagers steal a shelf of candy bars. Nothing of consequence but they got the highest attention and care possible. This is bullshit. I found officer Curry, he sent me on my way and I stepped out onto the street, the stench of cigarettes and the sound of shuffling feet greeting me to my long walk to the train station to get home. Late afternoon, people were getting out of work and heading home to families… or heading to the bar to drown their sorrows. I allowed myself to blend with the sea of suits and pencil skirts to head home, exhausted from not being listened to and talking ad nauseum until my throat hurt. I was looking forward to a shower and a bottle of vodka to forget today.
An arm snaked around my shoulder, toned and strong it squeezed lightly which was enough to stop my next breath halfway through my throat. I wanted to look up and see who it was but the red flannel by my side and the air that could be cut with a butter knife told me better. “It’s lucky those cops are so corrupt they’ll never believe a poor damsel in distress. I learnt to clean up from my mother you know?” The voice wasn’t normal. Rather than touching my ears I heard it echo in my head.
“And I think I missed a spot… don’t you?”
About the Creator
Affection and Healing for Yourself
During the night of the last quarter moon, I gathered my ritual supplies. I carefully handled the chunk of black tourmaline that would protect me from your overall negative and narcissistic energy. I carefully walked the house with my stick of selenite in hand, asking the universe to cleanse our working space.
By Alisha Wilkins ✒️🦋🖋️4 days ago in Fiction
The Quiet Ritual of Winter
Winter did not arrive with noise. It never did. It came softly, like a breath held too long, settling into corners people forgot to look at—window sills, empty bus stops, the space between thoughts. The city slowed without asking permission. Mornings felt heavier, evenings longer, and silence became a companion rather than an absence. Every winter, Amir followed the same ritual. He woke before dawn, when the sky was still undecided. The kettle went on first—always first. Not because he was thirsty, but because the sound reminded him that something was beginning. Steam curled upward, fogging the small kitchen window, blurring the world outside until it felt manageable. He stood there, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, watching frost creep along the glass like careful handwriting. This was the season of restraint. In summer, life demanded movement. Noise. Proof of existence. Winter asked for the opposite. It invited stillness and rewarded those who listened. Amir layered his coat slowly, the same way his father once did—methodical, deliberate, as if each button fastened something inside as well. Outside, the streets were quiet. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the promise of it hung in the air, sharp and clean. He walked. Not to escape, not to arrive—just to move through the cold. His boots pressed soft patterns into the pavement, temporary marks that would disappear by noon. That was part of the ritual too: doing something knowing it would not last. The park sat empty except for a lone bench beneath a leafless tree. Amir brushed the frost away before sitting. He always sat there. Always waited. Winter taught patience without explanation. Memories came easier in the cold. They slipped in gently, uninvited but not unwelcome. His mother’s hands warming over a stove. The smell of bread. Laughter that once filled rooms now reduced to echoes stored in the body. Loss felt sharper in winter, but somehow more honest. He had learned not to rush the ache. The sky lightened slowly, revealing pale blues and silver clouds. A bird landed nearby, puffed up against the cold, sharing the silence without comment. Amir smiled. Survival did not always require answers—sometimes it only required presence. As the city stirred awake, Amir returned home. Gloves off. Coat hung carefully. Shoes lined where they belonged. Small acts of order against a season that thrived on stripping things bare. Afternoons were for writing, though he never called it that. He opened a notebook and let words arrive when they wished. No deadlines. No audience. Winter words were not meant to perform. They existed simply to be true. Outside, the first snow finally fell. It was light at first—almost shy. Flakes drifted downward, uncertain, testing the ground. Amir watched from the window, his breath slowing to match the quiet descent. Snow transformed the familiar into something sacred. Streets became softer. Edges disappeared. That night, he cooked a simple meal. Soup, always soup. The ritual was not about variety but consistency. Each spoonful tasted of warmth earned, not rushed. The radio hummed low in the background, voices distant enough to feel optional. Later, he lit a single candle. The flame flickered, small but stubborn. Winter was not about brightness; it was about endurance. About light that refused to disappear even when surrounded by darkness. He thought of all the people enduring their own winters—visible or hidden. Some wrapped in snow, others in grief, waiting for something unnamed to change. He hoped they, too, had rituals. Small anchors to hold them steady. Before sleep, Amir stood by the window one last time. The city was quiet again, wrapped in white. Tomorrow would demand movement. Responsibilities. Noise. But tonight belonged to winter. And winter, in its quiet wisdom, asked for nothing more than acceptance. Amir blew out the candle and let the darkness settle. Outside, snow continued its patient work—reshaping the world without ever raising its voice.
By Inayat khan2 days ago in Fiction
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